


i'll rearrange the stars (pull 'em down to where you are)

by fulmentus



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, POV Second Person, and company but they're only mentioned, the number is purposely vague
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-10-14 01:45:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17499269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fulmentus/pseuds/fulmentus
Summary: “Root?” Her eyes slowly trail to you. “You coming?”She blinks, and that same disquiet from when she spoke about Hanna the first time returns, marring her features. “Did you ever look at the stars, Sameen?”or, shaw and root share a moment on a rooftop





	i'll rearrange the stars (pull 'em down to where you are)

****She stops a few feet away from you, leans her elbows against the concrete ledge, casual, as though the both of you aren't standing stories above the bustling streets of New York.

You lower the binoculars from your face, glancing away from the number just for a moment, to take her in. The lines of her silhouette against the backdrop of the city, the gentle way her face is suffused with the vibrant colors of neon signs and blinding billboards.

(You don't wax poetic, but you could try to paint her and never get the angles quite right.)

She tilts her head towards you, mouth curling up at the corner. "Hey, Sweetie."

"Root." You nod. Turn back to your number, who hasn't moved from his seat within his apartment.

“How’s the number?”

“Machine didn’t tell you?”

“She knew I was going to come ask you anyway.” Root closes the distance between you, practically presses up against your side, and you look away from the number again.

“Boring. For someone who has people trying to kill him, dude’s life is uneventful.”

You and Reese scrounged up the hit on him earlier, but so far, you haven’t seen any attempts on his life; Reese had gone to enlist Fusco’s help, pooling their resources at the NYPD while you kept an eye on the guy.

(You can do stakeouts just fine, but you rub at your stomach, sigh.

You’re overdue for a meal. Reese owes you for this.)

“The Machine have any idea who’s after this guy?”

Root cants her head to the side, that glassy look in her eye that you know means that the Machine is spilling information into her implant. Root’s brow arches, and you raise your own, tap your foot against the ground, expectant.

“She says to look into his wife,” Root supplies, brushing errant strands of hair behind her ear. “Seems the missus got into something without letting her husband know.”

You sigh, shake your head. “Typical.”

You swipe the wig in your ear, tell Reese to look into the wife’s business, before lifting your binoculars once more to watch the number sit at his home desk and shuffle through a seemingly endless amount of paper.

Your stomach grumbles, and you roll your eyes. You’re about to ignore it (again, you’re going to make Reese pay for at least two meals because of this) when Root shifts beside you.

You glance over, watch as she rifles around in the satchel you hadn’t noticed hanging from her shoulder. She mumbles something under her breath that you don’t catch, but before long, she’s brandishing a paper bag in front of you.

“A little bird told me you haven’t eaten yet.” And she’s smirking at you, eyes glittering, and you offer your perfunctory eye-roll before snatching the bag from her.

It’s not a steak, but you’ll take it. You remove the wrapped sandwich, inhale the heavenly scent of _food_ , and Root takes the bag from you, tucking it away in hers to be disposed of later probably. You bite into the sandwich, eyes closing in relief — god, you’re so hungry — and you can feel Root’s gaze on you.

You open your eyes to her fond expression, that hopeless, doting smile she always has when she watches you do… anything, really. You pick up the binoculars you abandoned for your sandwich and toss it to her.

“Since you’re here,” you say, shrugging one shoulder and returning to your meal.

She laughs, something light, and turns the binoculars over in her hands. “The Machine will tell me if your number’s in danger, you know.”

You swallow back another large bite, resist the urge to roll your eyes again. “Just watch him, so I can eat in _peace_.”

Root’s smile widens, and she brings the binoculars to her eyes. “Whatever you say, Sweetie.”

—

Reese calls back an hour or so later, notifying you that the wife has been located and that he and Fusco will deal with her.

 _Guess I don’t have to take over your shift after all,_ and you can hear the smug-ass grin in his voice. You’re going to punch him later.

You go for making fun of him in the meanwhile. _Whatever, Reese. Try not to crash another car._

He clicks off his comm then, and you snort at that. Satisfied that you must have offended him or something. But, to be honest, even Reese has to be aware of how many cars he’s crashed while trying to save numbers (you, on the other hand, have a much better track record).

“Seems we’re stuck here until John and Lionel neutralize the threat.” You turn to Root as she speaks, leaning her back against the ledge, chin tilted up to the sky. She slants her gaze toward you then, smirking. “How will we _ever_ pass the time?”

You stare at her. Blink. “We’re not having sex on a rooftop, Root.”

She pouts at you. “You’re no fun.”

“I don’t need my ass freezing—” You glare when her mouth opens, no doubt armed with another innuendo. “Not happening.”

She shrugs her shoulders, a _suit yourself_ kind of motion, and she returns her gaze to the darkened sky above you, binoculars resting at her elbow, forgotten. You snatch it up, trace the lines of her profile, the cut of her jaw and the curve of her cheek. Wonder fleetingly of what she’s looking for.

She says nothing, and maybe she’s listening to the Machine or maybe she’s lost in thought, but you still have a number to watch and ensure that he doesn’t bite a bullet.

You bring the binoculars back to your face and keep watch.

—

“I’ve done a lot of stakeouts,” you start, breaking the silence after minutes tick by and Root hasn’t looked away from the light-polluted sky, “but this is by far one of the most boring ones.”

“Well,” Root sighs after a beat, exaggerated disappointment rolling off her tongue, “I did offer to make it more entertaining for you.”

“ _Root_.”

(And it’s not that you’re not interested, but it’s cold and you’re not looking to catch a cold or something equally terrible.

Besides, your number is across the way, and it’s still your job to make sure he doesn’t end up dead, regardless of how you feel about the situation.

You should have asked Reese if you could tag along; you really need to shoot something before _you_ die. Of boredom.)

She smiles at you, completely undeterred, but she doesn’t ask again, eyes drifting back to the sea of black above you. You ignore the curiosity that bites at you, try to stay focused on the task at hand — not that there’s much going on there — but eventually you cave.

“What are you looking at?”

Her eyes drop down to meet your gaze, and she smiles, a little crooked and a little… sad, maybe. You blink, unsure of what to make of her expression.

“I used to look to the stars when I was…” _A kid_ , you mentally supply when she pauses. “Younger. Hanna and I,” and she falters again, tripping over her words.

(And she’s told you about Hanna before. Hushed words and trembling hands.

She’d been so unsteady when she told you, clearly tormented by the memories. You hadn’t wanted to push her, reminded her that she didn’t need to say anything. But Root looked at you with determination breaking through the turmoil.

Looked at you like you deserved to know.)

“We would stay out at night during the weekends, make up stories.” Root sighs, a quiet breath in the space between you. “I researched them for her, spent hours in the library remembering every constellation so that I could trace them in the sky for her, but…” She frowns. Stops.

You remain silent, waiting. Root has never needed you to say anything, respectful of your preferred method of not talking (she only needs you to _listen_ , which you do, always).

Your comm crackles, and Reese’s voice interrupts. Your glance at Root, but she doesn’t seem to notice, her brow furrowed as she considers whatever she was trying to explain to you. You leave her to it, tuning in to what Reese is telling you.

Apparently he and Fusco have dealt with the threat and the wife confessed to whatever crime she was committing, the hit on her husband rescinded, leaving him free from any bullets lodging between his eyes.

“Nice work, boys,” you say before switching off your comm.

“All done?” Root asks.

You nod, begin packing away the rifle you never got to use (you sigh) and the binoculars. You crush the paper wrapping of your sandwich into a ball, throwing it into your bag so you can toss it out once you get back to your apartment.

You make a move toward the stairs leading back into the building, but Root doesn’t go to follow. She stands, a shadow against the light of the city, unmoving and pensive. A kind of melancholy about her.

“Root?” Her eyes slowly trail to you. “You coming?”

She blinks, and that same disquiet from when she spoke about Hanna the first time returns, marring her features. “Did you ever look at the stars, Sameen?”

It’s a simple question really, but with the way Root looks at you right now, you know you can’t leave her like this.

“Uh, no, not really.” You start back toward her, setting down your rifle case and you pack of extra firearms (just in case). You glance between Root and the sky, where the stars are nowhere in sight, hidden behind a shroud of pollution.

(There was never much time for observing the sky above your head.

It changed so often due to moving around because of your father’s job. It wasn’t the most important thing to note as your mother cared for you in between.

And then you were working toward your residency before being tossed out. After that, it was the Marines and the ISA. There wasn’t room for anything but clear focus on the job, on the mission at hand.)

Her mouth twists, and you tilt your head toward her, offering your ear because you’ve never been much of a wordsmith. She softens, looking at you in that way of hers that makes your chest feel tight, makes you feel warm all over.

She draws a breath, and she talks.

—

When she has nothing more to say, her words tapered out, you let her voice echo in your mind, and you tuck the information away for later use. For whenever she wants to discuss it again.

You see her shiver, pull at the sleeves of her leather jacket. You feel the cold, too, feel it bite at your exposed skin, and you want nothing more than to get off of this rooftop and head back to your apartment. But, there’s something about this moment that has you staying.

Still and unwavering beside Root. Thinking back to your father.

The way he’d tuck his jacket around you whenever you were cold, how it would hang below your knees, threaten to swallow you whole. The way he’d drive long distances just to take you to a game and spend time with you.

You want to curse Root for dredging up these memories that you put to rest some time ago, moving on to saving numbers and fighting Samaritan. But you don’t.

She leans closer to you, her shoulder brushing against yours, and you can’t find it in yourself to mind much. Her proximity ushers in warmth, a sort of comfort that you’ve grown accustomed to over the years.

You turn your head, meet her gaze, eyes flicking between hers, and _what the hell, honestly_.

“I’m sure the Machine’s told you all about him, but,” you scratch the back of your neck, tug at your ponytail, “do you want to hear about my father?”

Root’s eyes widen at your words, lips parting in surprise, and you watch multiple expressions skitter across her face until it comes to a stop, a breathless kind of laughter escaping her mouth.

She presses against you as she listens, and you find yourself talking, voice low against the white noise of the city around you.

And maybe it’s not the steak you’re craving, or Bear, or the bed you want to collapse onto, but you can think of worse things than a successful number, talking about the stars and your father, and Root.

**Author's Note:**

> this was 100% self-indulgent oops  
> title from: light - sleeping at last  
> thanks for reading!


End file.
